October 11, 2008

While I thought I made a pretty good case for what I was doing under her bed with my ex-girlfriend, she didn't really seem to buy any of it.

"Can you both just leave now?" she said.

"Honestly, we were looking for your cat," Blythe said, unconvincingly. "I'm a friend of his from L.A. I was in town for an audition and I ran into him in the street and he invited me up."

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The more Blythe said, the worse it sounded.

Susan could not make eye contact with her. She just looked at me the entire time, as if Blythe wasn't even in the room. Meanwhile, that little shit, Claude, had come out of hiding and was rubbing against her leg, purring like a motorboat.

"I need my keys now, Zach."

"This is crazy. Let's just talk about this. It's just a terrible misunderstanding, like a bad episode of Three's Company."

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I realized after I said it that perhaps that wasn't the best TV comparison.

Blythe grabbed her coat and made her way to the door. "This is ridiculous," she said. "I'm late for a meeting. It was nice to meet you."

Susan shot daggers at her back, then, after she left, turned to me and said, "That was the chef, wasn't it? Your ex-girlfriend. I don't want to see you anymore."

I followed after her, but she walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. "Get out of my house and my life."

"Susan. Please, listen to me. I don't even like Blythe. Nothing happened."

"Then how do you explain the lipstick smeared on your mouth? I'm not an idiot!"

What could I say? She was right. It looked terrible, and it was virtually impossible to explain away. If I were her, I'd do the same thing. So I left her apartment, probably for the last time, with a lump in my throat. Angry at myself and angry at Blythe.

That was a few days ago, and I'm still letting it percolate in my head. It's a shame, really, because I was really starting to like Susan. But I figure two strikes and I'm out. So I'm back with Mom at the Days Inn, a large welt still on my head from where I banged it on Susan's box spring. Is it depressing? As Sarah Palin might say, "You betcha."

Today I had a text from Blythe asking, "How ya doing?" That was all it said, as if everything was perfectly normal. I haven't responded yet. The memory of that kiss is still fresh in my mind. No matter how hard I try to shake that girl, it's like she has a sexual hold on me. Every fiber in my body says stay away, but that kiss taunts me like half-eaten bag of Doritos. Once you have one…

Don't do it, Zach. Do you hear me? This is your conscience speaking to you. Do not have any contact with that woman. She is trouble. Do you understand? She is evil. She cheated on you, for chrissakes!

What are you doing? You're reaching for your BlackBerry. Stop it! Stop it this instant. Do not text her. Oh, damn it, you're scrolling through your contacts. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Do you have any self-respect, man? Does Thor make all your decisions? Oh, there you go, typing away like a monkey. You're pathetic. You know that, right?